


quiet birds in circled flight

by darlingargents



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Nonnies Made Me Do It, POV Outsider, Social Media, Suicide, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:48:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22841233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingargents/pseuds/darlingargents
Summary: Richie takes himself off the board.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 132
Collections: Fics that totally rip my heart out





	quiet birds in circled flight

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another FFA-inspired fic. Based on [this discussion](https://fail-fandomanon.dreamwidth.org/391819.html?thread=2304657291#cmt2304657291). (Disclaimer: I was the anon who brought up Richie in the first place, and the one who said I wanted to write it. Here it is... four months later.) Dedicated, as always, to IT nonnies :)
> 
> All usernames in this fic were made up by me and/or a random username generator. If they happen to be shared by real internet users, this does not represent them in any way, shape, or form.

“Fifteen minutes,” someone calls, and Steve hangs up on some executive something-or-other and heads into Tozier’s dressing room. The makeup artist is dusting his face with powder and he’s texting someone while doing vocal exercises.

“How’s my favourite client doing?” Steve asks. The makeup artists puts away her brushes, gives Richie a thumbs-up in the mirror, and heads out.

“Great. So ready. Does my hair look fucked up? She said it’s fine, but I don’t know if I believe her.”

“It’s great. Fifteen minutes. You good?”

“Fantastic,” he says, and then his phone rings. Steve sees DERRY, MAINE flash across the screen. Richie frowns at it for a second.

“You have time,” Steve says, “go ahead.” Richie nods a thank-you and lifts the phone to his ear.

“Hello?” He pauses. “Mike who?”

If Steve hadn’t been watching Richie’s face in the mirror, he wouldn’t have believed what he was seeing. Richie’s face drains of colour completely, in seconds. His eyes go wide with horror, pupils dilated, the light from the vanity reflecting in his eyes. His left hand, on the counter, begins to shake like he’s just taken a boatload of crack.

“Mike, I — fuck. No. I can’t.”

Steve has no idea what’s going on, but Richie doesn’t look ready to be onstage anytime in the next week, and that’s not acceptable. He makes a cut-off gesture in the mirror, trying to catch Richie’s eye, but he’s not seeing it; his eyes are practically glazed over, staring into the mirror as he listens.

“I know I did. Fuck. Did you call the others?” Brief pause. “Okay, but — are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?”

“Richie,” Steve says, “hang up.” He normally would never do that — he always tries to remember that he’s employed by his clients, not the other way around, and he values discretion and making his clients feel like they’re in control — but he’s seeing something in Richie’s face that he’s never seen on a person before. A level of fear that he can’t even comprehend. It’s scaring him, deep in his soul, in a way he’s never felt before.

And Richie has a show in five minutes.

“I’ll be there,” Richie says. “See you.” He hangs up and stares into the mirror for a long moment, completely ignoring Steve’s questioning looks. Then he stands and walks out the door.

“Hey — where are you going, pal?” Richie doesn’t even react. He’s making a beeline for the nearest fire door, and for a horrified second, Steve’s afraid he’s going to go outside and jump.

He doesn’t. He throws up off the fire escape.

“Christ!” Steve says as Richie comes back inside, wiping off his mouth. “What the hell was that?”

“I need ten minutes,” Richie says. “Also bourbon.”

“You need to be onstage—”

“Ten minutes.” A PA hands him a glass of bourbon and he downs it in one swig. “Sorry, Steve.” He ducks into the dressing room, grabs something off the counter, and before Steve can get another word out he’s locked himself in the bathroom.

Steve stares at the closed door for a long moment. “Fuck.”

*

Eleven minutes later, the door is still shut. Steve bangs his fist on the door. “Tozier, open the fucking door and get onstage or I’m cancelling your fucking Netflix special. Fuck!”

No answer. He can hear talking in the audience, his phone is ringing — probably someone asking why the fuck Tozier isn’t onstage, they said a ten minute delay and it’s been ten minutes, where the fuck is he? Steve bangs harder on the door. Sweat slides down the back of his neck.

There’s no answer. He would think that Richie must have left, but the door is still locked — he’s checked — and he hasn’t taken his eyes off the door since Richie went inside.

A PA — Chris or something, Steve thinks his name is, the one who got Richie the bourbon — comes up beside him, holding a clipboard, exuding nervousness. “I just got a call from the owner of the theatre,” he says. “They can’t get ahold of you. They need to know what’s happening.”

“I don’t know,” Steve says. “Is there someone who can kick down this door?”

Chris or Cole or whatever’s eyes go wide. “He’s still in there? I’ll find someone who looks strong.” He vanishes and thirty seconds later he’s back, with a sound guy who looks like he hits the gym a lot.

“You need to get in there?” he asks. “You’re telling me to do this, right? I won’t get fired?”

“I’ll take the fall,” Steve says. A broken door will be the least of his issues if he can’t get Tozier onstage.

The sound guy nods, and Steve and Chris step back. He kicks the door and the lock breaks. Once more and it swings open.

The first thing Steve sees is the blood.

Chris gasps and the sound guy steps back, decides that it’s not worth it to be here for this, and leaves, practically running. Steve is frozen in place. The sink is overflowing with blood. It’s pooling on the counter and running down the outside, dripping steadily onto the black tile floor. And Richie Tozier is sitting on the toilet, head resting on the counter, a pair of scissors buried to the handle in his neck.

Steve knows without needing to get any closer that Richie is dead.

Chris bolts, and doesn’t make it outside before he throws up. Steve hears it, distantly; he’s stuck on the sight of Richie’s fingers, dipped in the blood. He’d been writing something on the mirror in his last moments. Steve leans in, breathes through his mouth to avoid the overwhelming stink of gore, and looks at the word. Two letters.

**_IT_ **

*

**COMEDIAN RICHIE TOZIER DEAD AT 40**

Richie Tozier, known for his time on SNL and his prolific live performances, has passed away, his manager Steve Covall confirmed Sunday. On Friday night, audiences at his show in Chicago were left waiting after the preshow, and after a brief delay, the show’s cancellation was announced, no reason given. An insider source claimed that Tozier had passed between the preshow and the scheduled show, and this was confirmed in a statement by Covall.

“Richie Tozier has been my client for the past twelve years and I have had the pleasure of watching his incredible career from up close. On Friday night, in emotional distress before his show, he committed suicide. We ask for privacy at this time, and my thoughts are with his loved ones.”

Tozier was born in Derry, Maine on March 7th, 1976. He was forty. His parents are deceased and he was unmarried. Several of his former SNL co-stars have tweeted their condolences, including Bill Hader and Fred Armisen.

_Comments:_

LilSebastian | Sun, 1:23 pm  
Fuck, I’m gutted. I’ve liked him since SNL. Saw him live one time, it was epic. What a great comic, gone way too soon.

NightOwled | Sun, 1:25 pm  
Right before his show?? He couldn’t have waited until after? What an asshole.

TacosAndTequila | Sun, 1:27 pm  
Wow, fuck you. He just died. That’s really what you’re going to say about this? Do you have some kind of grudge?

NightOwled | Sun, 1:27 pm  
I’ve never liked him. I’m sad that he’s dead sure but I still think he’s a dick.

TacosAndTequila | Sun, 1:25 pm  
RIP. The fun’s just beginning. :(

ConnorsWorld | Sun, 1:31 pm  
He’s from Derry? My cousin’s from there. Small world. Anyway, this is really sad. I always thought he’d start doing movies, I thought he’d be fantastic. Sad that he’ll never get the chance.

*

“Where the fuck is Tozier?” Eddie says. Bev looks at her plate, and Stan glances at her, his face unreadable.

“I talked to him,” Mike says. “He said he’s coming, but who knows.”

“He’s never on time,” Bill says. “Let’s eat.”

The dinner goes by quickly with no sign of Richie. There’s tension in the air — without Richie to crack a few jokes, none of them really know what to say, aside from the ordinary catching-up. At the end, their fortune cookies are delivered, and they’ve mostly relaxed enough to open them with no fanfare.

Eddie stares down at his. _Cut_.

“Weird fortune cookie,” he says, until he notices everyone else’s faces. Everyone looks confused, except Bev, who looks… horrified.

Ninety seconds later, they’re staring down at the combined fortunes.

GUESS RICHIE COULD NOT CUT IT

Mike’s phone dings, and he looks down. “Oh, god,” he says, and Eddie breaks his eyes away from the fortune cookies to look at him. He’s staring at his phone like he’s seen a ghost.

“What?” Bill says when Mike doesn’t elaborate.

“I have a Google alert for all of your names,” he says quietly, and slides his phone to the middle of the table. It’s open to a Reddit post. INSIDER INFO: RICHIE TOZIER KILLED HIMSELF!

Eddie isn’t even aware of the sound he makes. He feels like he’s been punched in the gut. Bill keeps saying “No, no, no,” over and over, and Ben has jumped up and away from the table like moving away will make it any less true. Bev is crying, quietly, and Stan’s hand is covering hers, a silent comfort.

He can’t stop thinking about Richie’s stupid glasses and stupid voices and your-mom jokes, and how he’ll never see him again.

*

Steve has been a manager for nearly twenty years. He’s dealt with his fair share of scandals and drama. He’s had to spin and cover up dozens of different incidents, and he’s worked ninety-hour weeks a few times.

Nothing — nothing — has come close to hitting him as hard as this.

It’s Sunday. He’s slept for maybe four hours total since finding Richie in the bathroom. He’s had to make what feels like hundreds of calls — cancelling the show, cancelling all the upcoming shows, figuring out a statement, trying to find out if Richie had any friends or girlfriends or family, and now coping with the media firestorm of controversy. Earlier, after he gave his statement, he’d planned to drink himself to sleep. It didn’t work. Every time he closed his eyes he could see the scissor handles sticking out of Richie’s neck, the blood covering the bathroom, the shaky letters on the mirror. **_IT_ **. What the fuck does that mean?

And worse, he still has Richie’s phone. Whoever called him kept texting for hours, and he doesn’t know how the fuck he’s supposed to interpret what they’re saying. _You made a promise, Richie_ , and _What time is your flight? Remember your oath._ and _Are you okay? You didn’t sound okay, but you said you’d be here, no matter what. So where are you?_

He considered answering, because he knows Richie’s password — 0903 — and every time a new text came in, he’d felt physically ill. But then Richie’s death was leaked on Saturday night and the texts had stopped. He assumes that the person found out, somehow. He feels bad for them, but also — they’re the reason Richie killed himself. He doesn’t know how, or why, but he knows that it was the phone call that drove Richie to the point where he thought his only way out was to stab his throat out with a pair of scissors.

It’s nearly midnight. He can’t stop thinking about how he’s going to have to be the one to plan Richie’s funeral. He’s not nearly drunk enough.

He’s not going to sleep right now. He goes to find another bottle of bourbon. He’s already gone through an entire bottle. He can’t stop thinking about how bourbon was the last thing Richie drank before he died. Was it still in his mouth when the scissors went through his—

Steve needs to stop thinking about this. He pours himself another glass.

*

r/trashmouth  
 **BREAKING: STEVE COVALL CONFIRMS RICHIE TOZIER’S DEATH  
** u/pm-me-comedian-nudes [the fun’s just beginning]  
[Announcement]

Statement released by Steve Covall confirming that Richie committed suicide before his show on Friday night. You can read an article about it here.

Fuck, guys. I really hoped the leaks were fake or some sort of sick joke, and I was watching his twitter for him to deny the rumors. I don’t even know what to say.

_486 Comments [sort=old]_

u/TacosAndTequila  
RIP

u/MasturbatorsAnonymous  
Does that mean everything about the leaks was right? If so… fuck, man, that’s horrifying.

u/trashdick69  
What else was in the leaks?

u/MasturbatorsAnonymous  
They said he stabbed himself in the throat with a pair of scissors after receiving a phone call. He locked himself in a bathroom and they had to kick down the door.

u/sardinemuscle  
What the fuck?

u/pm-me-comedian-nudes [the fun’s just beginning]  
We don’t know if that part of the leaks is true, but I mean. If the main fact — that he killed himself right before his show — is true, it makes sense that the rest would be.

u/trashdick69  
Uh. Wow. That’s a lot worse than I expected.

_[ read more… ]_

*

r/trashmouth  
 **MOD POST [pinned]  
** u/scorpiobiitch [no-fun mod]

We’ve been deleting these threads all over the place and told people over and over not to bring it up, but people keep doing it, so consider this a reminder and a new permanent rule.

  * Talking about Richie’s suicide is fine. Talking about the way he did so, especially considering that it’s a) unconfirmed and b) deeply upsetting to many members of this sub, is not fine. Last warning. I’ll start handing out permabans tomorrow.
  * Conspiracy theories about why he killed himself are absolutely not okay. I understand why people may have thought this was an acceptable space to talk about it, but you can consider this your official, final warning. It’s not and again, permabans will start tomorrow.



This community has been really great in a lot of ways and I’m glad to have had the support here going through this, and we need to keep this a respectful space. Thanks, guys.

EDIT: Comments closed, because y’all can’t fucking handle yourselves. Great job.

_73 Comments [sort=old]_

u/TacosAndTequila  
Thank you for this. It’s been really hard seeing it brought up all over this sub.

u/[deleted]  
[removed]

u/silverorange  
Christ, what’s wrong with you?

u/scorpiobiitch [no-fun mod]  
Consider this an exception! You’re banned early.

u/longboiiiiiiiii  
scissors

u/scorpiobiitch [no-fun mod]  
Everyone gets the early bans! Good job, guys. I’m logging off now.

_[ read more… ]_

*

Richie’s memorial is a quiet affair.

Steve plans it, because no one else will. A non-religious ceremony in an Anglican church, with Richie’s ashes in an urn at the front. The turnout isn’t huge; he extended the invitation to people Richie knew only. A lot of people he worked with, and almost no personal friends.

Steve sits at the front, and when it’s over, the small-time celebrities and comedians trickle out and into the reception area, where there’s a pitiful selection of snacks. Pre-cut fruit and Costco bite-sized brownies.

For a few moments, Steve sits there, and wipes his eyes.

When he gets up and turns around, he sees a group that must’ve come in near the end. He doesn’t recognize any of them, except for William Denbrough, recently blacklisted from the Hollywood scene… for disappearing off a set, the same day that Richie died.

Steve just stands there for a moment. He didn’t invite these people — they must’ve found out some other way. But they’re all visibly crying or were just moments ago. They’re all men except for one woman, red-haired and familiar-looking.

They start to get up, and Steve sits back down to watch them. One of them, a tall, muscular man, goes to the guest book and signs it, and the others follow him, one by one. Then they leave as a group, going outside instead of towards the reception area.

As the last one, a curly-haired man in a heavy jacket, disappears around the corner, Steve gets up and flips to the most recent page of the guest book. They’ve all signed.

_The Loser’s Club_

_We did it, Richie. Thank you for everything._

_Mike Hanlon, Derry, ME  
_ _Beverly Marsh, Manhattan, NY  
_ _Ben Hanscom, Nebraska  
_ _Eddie Kaspbrak, New York, NY  
_ _Bill Denbrough, Los Angeles, CA  
_ _Stan Uris, Atlanta, GA_

Derry, Maine. Mike, from Derry.

Before Steve can think it through, he’s running. The first one who signed — the taller one — maybe he’ll have the answers. He bursts through the side doors and there he is, walking towards a car side by side with William Denbrough.

“Mike!” he calls when Mike reaches for the passenger door of what looks like William’s car. He looks up, and blinks at Steve.

“Hello?” he says politely, and Steve stops in front of him. He has no idea what to say.  
“Can we talk?” he finally manages. “I was — I was Richie’s manager.”

“Oh,” Mike says, and looks at William, who shrugs. “Uh, sure. I’m in town for the next little bit — do you want to meet for coffee, or—”

“Please. I’ll call you.” He hands his phone to Mike. “Add your number.”

Mike adds his number and hands Steve’s phone back. He pauses as William gets in the car and starts it.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says. “I guess you know that I called him.”

“Yeah.”

Mike runs a hand over his face. He looks exhausted, and Steve feels a flicker of pity for him. “He was my friend,” he says. “I didn’t — none of us wanted this.”

“I know.” Steve doesn’t think there’s anything more to say. “I’ll call you.”

With that, he turns around, and goes to do the thing he least wants: turn his client’s funeral into a networking opportunity.

*

He ends up meeting Mike for coffee the next morning. The day of the funeral was bright and sunny, a normal LA day; today is cloudy, almost on the verge of rain. It feels almost fitting.

Mike pays for an Americano for both of them, and they sit outside Starbucks in silence for a few moments. Mike blows on his coffee and takes a sip, and Steve tries to find the words.

“He just,” Steve says, and falters. There’s a pressing pain in the back of his eyes. It still feels like a knife to the gut to think about that night. “He got a phone call from you, and ten minutes later he was dead.”

“I know.”

“He wasn’t — he wasn’t happy, I guess, but he wasn’t depressed. Lonely, sure, but — he wasn’t going to kill himself.”

Mike closes his eyes. “I hadn’t seen him in a long time, but I could’ve guessed. I should’ve — I don’t know. I should’ve done better.”

“There’s nothing you could’ve done,” Steve says, and is surprised to find he believes it. “He was going to do it, neither of us could’ve stopped it.” He pauses, and then asks the question he’s surprised to realize he’s barely thought about. “Why did you call him?”

“He needed to come home,” Mike says. He stares down at his coffee, his hands trembling a little. “We all needed to come back. Without Richie there, I’m surprised we survived.”

“Survived what?”

A ghost of a smile flickers onto Mike’s face. “You don’t want to know.”

Steve believes him, and he’s not even sure why. “Richie didn’t survive it.”

“No. No, I guess not.” Mike puts down his coffee and stands up. “Do you understand?”

“I think so,” Steve says.

A few raindrops spill down, splattering the table, and the handful of other patrons sitting outside Starbucks gather their things and start to move away. Steve just sits there, hands around his coffee, and looks at Mike.

He’s never seen eyes that old in someone who looked barely forty. He thinks he does understand, as much as someone like him — someone apart from whatever this was — can understand it. Whatever it is.

“Thank you,” Steve says. “For whatever it was.”

Mike just smiles, and walks away, leaving his coffee behind. As the rain starts to pick up, Steve watches him, as he gets into the driver’s seat of Denbrough’s car and drives away, until he’s gone.

The shoulders of Steve’s jacket are soaked through. He gets up, throws out Mike’s full coffee, and gets in his car.

Finally, alone in the rain, he lets himself cry.


End file.
